


Timeless

by quartetship



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (Not graphic; mentioning as a courtesy!), Absent Parents, Abusive Parents, Breaking Up & Making Up, M/M, Reunions, commission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We never go out of style, we never go out of style...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timeless

**Author's Note:**

> A commission for the wonderful [Min (TheChosenChu)](thechosenchu.tumblr.com), this piece was inspired by both 'The Notebook' and the song 'Style' by Taylor Swift. 
> 
> Also, the artwork featured here is by the fantastic [Annie](https://twitter.com/anniekinkin), and you can find more of her material [here](http://bubblline.tumblr.com/). (I encourage you to check her out!)
> 
> Enjoy, and as always, feedback is welcome and comments encouraged! 
> 
> \--

_A fresh start, a new beginning – the first day of the rest of your life._

Those were the things Marco’s parents promised him when they uprooted him from his quiet existence and moved across the country to a tiny, coastal town when he was fifteen years old. Heading into his sophomore year of high school, he wasn't happy about moving, dreading a new school that he would have only a few years to get used to before he'd be leaving it too, and no social circle to speak of. Not that those were the sorts of things his parents worried much about. They were far too busy assuring him that his life was about to drastically change for the better.

The Bodts were successful, making their move as part of one of Marco’s father’s countless business deals, moving closer to the headquarters of the company he'd purchased so he could keep a better eye on it. That same eye was one Marco was uncomfortably acquainted with, the overbearing gaze of his parents an everyday weight that he lived beneath. Perhaps in a new place, he hoped he might stand a chance at wriggling out from under it, at least while he was at school.

He took full advantage of that, right away.

They'd promised him fresh starts and new beginnings, but something his parents had never counted on was that their move would signal the start of something entirely out of the ordinary for Marco, something they would have never chosen for him. It was something that Marco didn't see coming either, until it passed him in the hallway in his second week of classes, and did a double take before turning to follow after him.

That something was a boy named Jean, and Marco’s life changed the moment their eyes met.

Jean Kirschtein was something Marco had only seen in movies, only heard about in whispers between his mother and her girlfriends as they shuddered at the ‘kids these days’. An almost outdated caricature of a wannabe bad boy, Jean was all weather-worn leather and v-neck shirts, the hint of something that might have been a tattoo peeking out from the dip of the neckline. With golden hair that was just long enough on top to be slicked from his eyes, he wore the same outfit most days, a simple combination of jeans that fit him a little too well and those plain white tees, capped with a jacket that seemed more suited for a motorcycle than the dented, black, aging Corvette he actually drove.

Marco barely knew what to make of him. He belonged on the cover of a magazine; the way people talked about him, it seemed like he might be better suited for a tabloid paper.

Jean had an established reputation of sorts, the kind of thing that no one really talked about but everyone just _knew._ Marco’s first thought upon meeting Jean – or rather, _encountering_ him – were of the warnings his mother had always made about delinquents, the kind of kids who were vandals and drug addicts and all the things that scared Marco’s parents most. But Marco had a hard time imagining Jean as any of those things; he never smelled of anything other than the occasional wisp of cigarette smoke that Marco never saw the source of, and no one ever actually seemed to be able to produce a single story of anything he'd done that was remotely illegal. Still, everyone in school seemed to regard him as a bad seed, and Jean seemed happy to let them think what they wanted to.

The clothes Jean wore, the way he looked, the way he walked the halls – he wore it all like a shell. He might not have been as hardcore as he liked to appear, but he was every bit as hard to crack as he seemed, riding on an air of aloofness that kept people staring at him from both sides of the crowded halls. Like an old Hollywood movie star, jammed into the body of a sixteen year old, with a look in his eyes like he was always elsewhere - always wandering through a daydream - Jean was making up for something with all the attention he attracted, but no one really knew what.

He was mysterious, but his immediate interest in Marco was no mystery.

Everyone could tell. Marco’s few friends there at his new school, the classmates he was still struggling to familiarize himself with – probably even the faculty. Marco didn't even know all of them, but they sure seemed to know enough about him to see that Jean took a liking to him right away, to notice that things between the two of them were somehow different than they were between Jean and everyone else.

With most people, Jean was a tight wire act, walking the line between very guarded and far too open. There were things everyone knew about Jean, or thought they knew, at least. Beneath that slick surface though, there were things no one dug deep enough to know, and a look in his eyes that Marco thought very much cried out for someone to care enough to _ask._ Those were the eyes he caught focused on him, more often than Jean probably even meant for him too. Those were the eyes that first piqued Marco’s interest.

Not that he was quite as interested as Jean apparently hoped he might be. Marco didn't exactly understand it, himself. Jean hadn't made much of an effort to get to know him before shooting him suggestive sideways glances in the halls or lingering near his locker, waiting to catch his eye. Marco was used to flirtation from members of his own gender being more… subtle. But he quickly learned that Jean wasn't much for subtlety.

Lab partners, group mates, study buddies – any chance Jean could find to get a little closer to Marco, he took. Marco seemed to melt the ice that formed the edges of Jean’s carefully crafted persona, leaving him a puddle of smitten stares and goofy grins. Turned out underneath that leather and layered charisma, Jean was actually just another teenager, with a serious crush on the new kid. It was actually kind of endearing. But Marco wasn't as quick to bite.

 “You're pretty cute today, Bodt.” Jean all but purred, all teeth as he pulled another ridiculous grin at Marco, peeking from behind the narrow barrier of Marco’s open locker door. It was at least the third time that week he’d made such a comment. Marco rolled his eyes, making his best effort at not smiling in return.

“You're pretty obnoxious.” He deadpanned, turning to face Jean, arms crossed over his chest. Jean shrugged, his grin only widening.

“Eh, I've been called worse.” He snaked one arm up the side of the locker door, leaning against it and lowering his voice. “So you doin’ anything after last bell?”

Marco raised an eyebrow, struggling harder with his effort not to match Jean’s grin. “Are you actually hitting on someone who just insulted you?”

“I'm persistent.” Jean laughed. Marco shook his head.

“No, you're _annoying.”_

“Mm, but you're smiling.” Jean pointed out, poking Marco in the cheek, and only then did Marco realize just how badly he'd failed at keeping a straight face.

“Only because you making a fool of yourself is funny.” He conceded, prodding Jean in the chest in retaliation. Jean caught his hand and held it, just barely brushing his lips across the backs of Marco’s knuckles, breath dancing over the skin there.

“So see? I can make you laugh.”

Marco pulled his hand away and shook it before jamming it in his pocket, hoping that no one saw – and that Jean couldn't see the blush he could feel rising to his face because of it. “You're grasping at some pretty serious straws, you know.”

Jean shrugged, leaning harder onto Marco’s open locker door as he raked a hand through his hair in an obvious attempt at suavity. “I'd grasp at just about anything to get a grasp on _you.”_

At that, Marco rolled his eyes again, stepping out from in front of his locker and letting the door swing closed, all but tossing Jean into the floor as it did. He turned and left without a glance back, biting his lip to keep the sounds of Jean grumbling from drawing a laugh out of him. Still, he couldn't help wondering just what Jean might be doing, after the last bell.

\--

Sometimes the line between arguments and flirting was nearly impossible to see.

They were just so different. Jean was openly bisexual, openly _everything._ The way he explained it, there wasn't a reason not to be. With a family that didn't care if he so much as came home every night, he poured a little too much of himself into his relationships, threatening to stick Marco on a pedestal before he'd even so much as gotten him out on a date. Jean acted cool, but when it came to dating, he was perfectly comfortable. Maybe a little _too_ comfortable.

Marco wasn't at ease in the spotlight Jean’s flirtatious smiles shone on him. He was quiet about the fact that he preferred men, quiet about the fact that he liked the thought of relationships at all. It was partly a personal preference, but more so one that his parents had essentially assigned to him. He didn't have time to waste, dating; he had to keep his grades up, stay active and keep them happy, make them proud. He owed it to them, after all. At least that was their take.

He was fairly certain his parents would hit the roof if he brought someone like Jean home. Even if Jean ditched the leather and ripped jeans and wore something a little more presentable, his aura was entirely mischievous, everything the Bodts didn't want their son anywhere near. And of course, he was definitely a _guy,_ and Marco had neglected to even mention _that_ side of himself to either of his parents. Purposely.

The two of them really didn't fit, but that didn't keep Jean from trying to convince Marco otherwise. He was far too open about it for Marco’s comfort, most days. But it was that same openness, Jean’s honesty and the sweetness that lay beneath his surface that began tugging at Marco after a while. He could feel himself beginning to stumble in his resolve.

Jean was winning him over.

"How do you _do_ that?" He hissed across the table they shared in their afternoon chemistry class one day, face half hidden from their teacher behind a raised book. Jean had been eyeing him nearly the entire period, in a way that was incredibly… _distracting._ He looked back at Marco, smiling innocently.

“What?”

“The… The _thing!_ The thing with your eyes, all big and sweet when I know you're really the devil.”

Jean grinned like a model for a camera, batting his eyelashes for full effect. “Aww, you think I have pretty eyes, Boy Scout?”

Marco frowned. “I'm not a Boy Scout – and that's _not_ what I said, I--”

“But you're not _denying_ it.” Jean bit his lip, still smirking despite it. He leaned forward, arms stretching out across the table until he could almost reach Marco, who was still scowling stubbornly.

“Well, I…” Marco bit his lips together hard, trying to think of an argument. Finally he gave up, dropping his chin into his hand and letting his eyes shutter closed as he sighed. “Fine. You have unfairly beautiful, insanely charming eyes. Now I’m trying to study, so stop using them against me.”

Smiling full tilt, Jean dragged himself upright again and stretched his arms above his head, then dropped back in his seat, seemingly satisfied, like he'd just won some kind of prize.

_“Never.”_

\--

Soon enough, they were sneaking around, shushing each other – usually with Jean only half serious – as they pinned one another to the nearest wall to steal as many kisses as they could manage. Marco wasn't used to moving so quickly, but Jean made him feel a rising heat that was fanned every time they moaned into each other’s mouths, and he needed as much of it as he could get.

It wasn't only about the need to touch. Marco ached to know Jean, to understand him, to hear about his wretched excuse for a home life and make things a little bit better, if only by listening. He couldn't patch up the torrid relationship Jean had with his single father, couldn't help the fact that Jean lived in poverty or did absolutely everything for himself, at home. But he could let him talk about it, and that seemed like more than enough – more than anyone else had ever done – for Jean.

When Marco would complain about his own smothering family, he always felt a twinge of guilt, but Jean wouldn't allow it to worsen. He listened. He understood Marco, almost right away. And Marco kept talking, because Jean did, too.

He told Jean about the expectations, the pressure cooker of tension that life with his parents was for him. The family business would pass to him, of course, and he somehow had to develop enough of an interest in it to accept that fact in the next decade or so. He spent as much of his time as he could escaping that reality, but when it came time for the myriad social events that his parents dragged him to every year – throwing him into a forced mingling of other business heir children – he couldn't deny the path they'd laid out for him entirely.

There had always been a future laid out in papers and plans for Marco, but Jean opened his eyes to something else. Jean showed him what it was like to live in the present, if for no other reason than because that was the only existence Jean knew. But he shared it with Marco willingly, and it was everything Marco didn't realize he'd been searching for.

Everything was in secret, of course. They couldn't go on real dates; it was too risky, for Marco at least. It was the major reason they spent most of their time volleying between making out in Jean’s backseat and talking, fingers laced as they looked at the stars and traded stories about what they wanted out of life. Quality time was confined to those spaces, so Jean did his best to make concession.

Their favorite spot of all the covert hideaways they frequented was just outside the town proper, a few miles drive that seemed to fly by when Jean would pick Marco up after his parents had long since gone to bed. They would drive with the lights off and the windows down, until they were out of sight of Marco’s house and nearing the edge of civilization. The end stop was a beach, but only barely. It was more of bank of sand, a flat clearing at the edge of a lopsided, heart-shaped lake that locals sometimes fished from, with a pier that would walk a person out fifteen feet or more into the middle of it.

It was on that short pier that they spilled out their pasts, and first talked about hopes of a single future, together, of a little house with a garage for Jean to tinker with things, and a library of Marco’s own for him to get lost in. Just small things they both wanted, things they'd never told anyone else about. The foundations for that dream were laid on the pier as they sat talking, hand in hand. It was there that the words ‘I love you’ first fell from Marco’s lips, as he realized just how much he wanted to see that future with Jean. And it was there that they first made love, Jean’s fingers threaded tightly with Marco’s as he breathed his name like a promise, an oath that needed no other words.

Other people knew the lake was there, but Jean and Marco only visited it when they could be sure they'd be alone. It was _their_ place. A second home, with no roof but the endless sky. They would spend more time there than anywhere else, just learning about each other, kissing, touching, holding onto each other beneath the light of fireflies and the moon.

It was everything they were, together.

It was simple. It was beautiful. And it was all a secret.

Everywhere they went – at home, at school, in town – they were always hiding. Even in plain sight, if there was a chance that Marco’s family could catch wind of what was happening, he made sure to keep his distance from the boy he couldn't even bring himself to call his boyfriend without feeling a peal of dread shake him top to bottom. The only way to keep what they had safe was to keep it between them.

Marco was a good boy, after all, at least in the eyes of his parents and peers. Polished and put together every day of the week, he was well dressed and well behaved and every bit the role model every adult around him expected him to be. His last name preceded him in reputation, an automatic good standing that he was under obligation to uphold. And uphold it, he did. That was the only measure of success he'd ever known how to live by, and as trying as it often was, he made strides to keep it up. He was the perfect student, the perfect son, always _perfect, perfect, perfect._

Jean was anything but. After knowing him for only a short time, Marco could tell he reveled in that, maybe only because he had no other choice. Part of Marco pitied him; a larger part envied him. Jean was so free, and being around him made Marco feel less tied down, by extension. Jean was his opposite, sometimes his balance and sometimes his downfall, tempting him into things he knew his role model persona shouldn't be seen doing. It was all in the name of a good time, of course, but that didn't stop Marco raising an eyebrow or huffing a short lecture in Jean’s direction before folding and joining him in whatever mischief he was urging Marco into.

That mischief was more often than not something that involved the two of them, running off for a few hours to pretend they weren't tied to the lives they really led. Marco didn't like to spoil that time, talking about how burdened he felt, thinking about his family and his future. With Jean he felt free, and when they were together, he chased that freedom at full speed, only pausing on the occasions that Jean’s hard and fast lifestyle was too much for him to keep pace with, when he was too frightened to let himself fall any harder than he already had. It made Marco wonder how he fit into the equation, why Jean wanted him in the first place, when they were on such different pages.

“Why do you even waste your time with me?” He asked one afternoon, as they sprawled out on the hood of Jean’s car in the sunshine of a Saturday spent far from home. Jean turned to fix him with a look of genuine surprise.

“More like why do _you_ waste yours with _me,_ mister perfect?” He grinned, trailing a hand lazily up Marco’s side. “But you won't find me complaining.”

“I'm not complaining,” Marco insisted, rolling up onto his other side, unconsciously moving into Jean’s touch. “I'm just asking what you see in me. We don't have much in common.”

“We have everything in common. I like you, you like me - that's all we need.” When Marco frowned, Jean heaved a sigh and propped himself halfway up, leaning on bent arms as he looked Marco up and down. “I dunno, babe. You've got that good boy, classic thing that I like. Smart and sweet, and you're damned sure a better person than I deserve. Past that, you're cute as hell and I like the way you say my name. And you look good in my jacket, when I can get you to wear it.”

“And that's enough?” Marco asked, biting his bottom lip hard to stop himself smiling at the tone of Jean’s voice as he laid the compliments on thick. Jean nodded and rolled over to face Marco, pulling him down for what started as a kiss, and quickly got a lot more _involved._

“That's all I need, baby.”

\--

It wasn't true, really. Marco didn't think so, anyway. They needed more in common than just wanting each other.

He wanted to know that something real was holding them together.

He tried to garner Jean’s interest in the things that he liked, Jean usually refusing outright to be ‘changed’ if Marco wasn't willing to meet him halfway somehow. He was an open book already, he argued; that should've been enough. Marco was barely willing to let people past his preface, and the chapters worth of memories he had with Jean were still top secret information. There was always an argument just around the corner, usually only made better by the decision to stop shouting and put their mouths to better use, lips sliding against one another’s as they found common ground in the curves and lines of each other’s bodies.

Marco didn't know how to _not_ reach for Jean, how to stop himself craving the way their hands fit together or the way it felt, having Jean’s arms around him. He shrugged his cautious nature off like an unneeded coat when Jean was around, following him into anything, anywhere. If Jean was a bird, _he'd_ be a bird, and he'd throw himself from the tallest tree in sight if Jean so much as pointed at it. Even if he did complain the whole way.

They were oil and water, but the way they danced around each other made for one hell of a show. An addictive one, one that Marco couldn't resist dancing in. It begged for an audience.

But Marco was too afraid to allow it to find one.

No matter how thickly Jean laid on the charm, Marco was always just distant enough to laugh it off when he needed to be, always too coy to flirt with him in front of teachers or coaches or – God forbid - _parents._ He was just too private, Jean complained. How was anyone supposed to know Marco was his if Marco pretended that he wasn't? Everyone knew there was something going on between them, but Marco preferred to keep it at that, never outright give them the pleasure of knowing exactly what he and Jean had. Jean wanted to show him off, but Marco was too frightened of what might happen if the son of a business magnate was spotted with his _boyfriend’s_ ring on a chain around his neck, a leather-clad arm around his shoulder.

Marco knew it bothered Jean, but he couldn't change it. Things were what they were, a lesson Marco had been learning his entire life. And after all, it wasn't that he refused to give Jean the affection he begged for. He just kept it tucked away, hidden in the moments of private time they had together.

There was never enough of that.

The moment the school bell rang every morning, they were carving out minutes between bells to hide behind the doors of lockers, in darkened hallways – anywhere that they could get their hands on each other for a moment. Every breath of time was put to use, just long enough for Jean to loop his fingers around Marco’s under a desk or behind a bookshelf. They were careful, yet carefree, slipping down a slope of need together that had Marco forgetting himself in front of other people. Every time Jean gave him one of his lopsided little grins, Marco was _gone,_ floating on air for hours.

When they weren't at school, that steady smolder burst into flames. Marco wasn't Jean’s first _anything,_ by any means, but he made Marco feel absolutely priceless in comparison to every other person on the planet. He practically _worshipped_ the expanses of pale, freckled skin that were hidden beneath shirts and pants, and often left pretty little bruises all over that skin to mark where he had been when they were alone together.

They could hardly keep their hands off of each other. Marco tried to pretend it didn't make his chest swell, looking down at Jean’s face as he kissed his way across whatever part of Marco he could reach, dragging nails wantonly over anything else. But the way he hauled Jean up into his lap and breathlessly returned the favor spoke otherwise, volumes more than he ever said with words.

They were on _fire_ for each other.

Covering up a flame that hot wasn't easy. Marco did everything he could to smother it when he needed to, but the heat was always threatening to sweat him out of hiding, keeping him uncomfortable when he was anywhere other than with Jean. Somehow, he felt like that was where he belonged. Even if they did have to keep things quiet.

Once while talking to his father, Marco heard him say something to the effect of, ‘where there's smoke, there's fire’, and never was that truer than in regard to him and Jean. Try as he might not to show just how desperately in love he had fallen, Marco was less and less careful as he lost himself to it, a little too confident that they were flying under everyone's radar. But no one was quite as ignorant as they were giving them credit for being.

Especially Marco’s parents.

Avoiding their eyes was usually easy. But Jean made subtlety difficult, making as much of a show out of everything they did together as he could manage. That included helping Marco discover that he had problems being quiet when he needed to, a fact that Jean _delighted_ in exploiting.

“Better make things quick, Boy Scout. Don't want mommy and daddy Bodt throwin’ a tantrum.” Jean mouthed at Marco’s neck, pulling away his shirt as Marco quickly undid the buttons. Marco groaned as he felt teeth drag across the skin there, praying there wouldn't be marks left behind.

“My dad’s not even in town,” he managed, hands roaming over Jean’s shoulders, searching for a hold to balance himself with. They’d been sitting together in Marco’s basement – a common occurrence, since Jean could sneak in and out through the sliding door that led out into Marco’s family’s backyard – when Jean had gotten the bright idea to get him riled up with his mother upstairs. Marco was still trying to remember to _breathe,_ let alone to keep his voice down, but in his dizzied, oxygen-deprived mind, it was sound logic for him to let Jean have his way. It certainly _felt_ like sound logic, anyway.

“And as far as my mom knows, I'm just down here doing laundry. No reason for her to come poking around.”

Jean hummed, careful of how hard he kissed Marco’s pale skin until he came to his more easily hidden collarbone. “Mm, so you're saying we're good to go?”

“Well, I…” Marco tore himself away from Jean’s hold for a moment, looking toward the stairs. The light that would've shone from the floor above if the door was so much as cracked wasn't there. Hungry for more of the things Jean’s hands could do for him, he sighed – a sound that more resembled a moan – and nodded. “If you keep it down, I think we’re good.”

“Oho!” Jean grinned lecherously, peeling his own shirt up over his head before pawing at Marco’s belt, his voice a low chuckle, breath hot against Marco’s ear. “My little Boy Scout ain't so good these days, huh?”

Marco took the opportunity to return fire, biting at the exposed skin of Jean’s shoulder until he hissed, fisting his hand briefly in Marco’s hair. “Good enough for you, aren't I?”

Jean nodded, snaking hands around to grab just under Marco’s ass, pulling his legs up and hoisting Marco into the air before settling him with a thump onto the loudly whirring washing machine. “Too damned good.” 

It was easy for Marco to get distracted from the world around him when Jean’s hands and lips were everywhere. Wrapped up in that spreading feeling of heat – panting through his pleas for Jean to hurry so they wouldn't be caught, half dressed and fully tangled in each other – Marco couldn't hear anything other than his boyfriend’s ragged breathing. The way the machine he was perched on vibrated beneath him, the way Jean’s touch seared its way across his increasingly exposed skin – it was all too much, and Marco was swept away.

He was so far gone - as everything spun into a dull buzz, just beyond his consciousness - that he couldn't hear the approaching footsteps on the creaking stairs, until they were drowned out by his mother’s booming voice as she stood in the doorway to the laundry room, absolutely _aghast._

There he was, legs wrapped around Jean’s bare waist, extremely red handed and unable to hide any longer. His lips were still swollen from Jean nipping at them, from kisses that had been too distracting for Marco to focus on keeping them a secret. He bit them, fingers instinctively digging into Jean’s side for a flash of a moment as his mother lit into them, furious.

She screamed at both of them, not even bothering to direct her anger solely at Marco, shouting horrible things about Jean as if he weren't even there. He was a lowlife, she seethed – how could Marco let himself be _seen_ with him, let alone be taken advantage of this way? She plucked Marco’s discarded shirt from the floor and wadded it up, throwing it at him as she started in again on what a disappointment he was in that moment.

Jean shrank back, like Marco had scarcely seen him do, even in the face of shouting teachers. Usually one to laugh off a reprimand, he stood cowering in the presence of Marco’s mother, tiny though she was. He snatched his shirt from the floor and hovered beside Marco, terrified to touch him as he waited for Marco’s mother to move far enough out of the way for him to bolt.

That really was the best word for it.

As soon as Mrs. Bodt stomped away - promising Marco that he would never hear the end of it once his father got home - Jean didn't wait. He didn't breathe a word to Marco, didn't even stop to pull his shirt on. He just _bolted,_ scrambling for the door. Only once he was standing in it did he pause for a bare second, throwing a distraught glance back over his shoulder at Marco, like he was desperate to stay, but too scared to do so.

Then he was gone, and Marco found himself wishing to chase after him, to apologize or hold him or do _something_ to fix it. But he would do all of those things later, when the storm he was sure to be in for had passed.

He just had to weather it, and then he and Jean could surely rebuild.

\--

Marco had endured many a lecture from his parents, in his time.

He knew the one he would get as soon as Jean was out the basement door – and Marco’s mother had had time to march him up the stairs to be berated by both she and his father – would be one for the record books, though. Caught with his clothes half off, with a boy - a delinquent - in _their_ house, of all places? He could hear the disappointment and fury in their voices before they even opened their mouths.

It was everything he’d always worried it would be. His father shouted; his mother cried. They asked him repeatedly why he disrespected them so, what on earth he was thinking, why he couldn't have chosen someone better to get mixed up with, but every time he opened his mouth to answer, they would lash out again and silence him. It was pointless, trying to respond, so Marco sat in silence, a stone against the waves, hearing them out until they were tired from their own rage. At nearly seventeen, grounding him wasn't a practical option, but they did it anyway, snatching his car keys and cell phone and insisting he couldn't have them back until Monday morning, at least.

He didn't argue when they sent him to his room. He just slipped up the stairs and closed his door, locking it just long enough to fumble under the bed for the tablet he kept there, just outside of his parents’ knowledge. Wiggling the charger plug into it, he unlocked his door again so as not to arouse their suspicions – though he was fairly certain he'd heard them leave in a door-slamming huff, shortly after they'd sent him away – and he waited for the screen to light up. He probably already had angry messages from Jean, but he would answer them once they'd had time to load. First, he needed to get his head on straight.

Things wouldn't be the same, moving forward. Marco knew that. They'd always been careful, by his design, but now that his parents knew about Jean, they would have to be an entirely different _kind_ of careful. It would have been a lie to say that he didn't know it would eventually come to that, but facing it was a lot more taxing than he thought it would be.

At least he had Jean, though. His parents could tighten their reins on him, but Jean was untamable, untouchable, and the only thing on Marco’s mind as he waited for a message that night. Maybe this would be a beginning, rather than a roadblock. Perhaps they would finally put more serious terms to the talks they'd had of a future together. Maybe they'd plan their great escape, together.

But first, he'd have to hear from Jean.

Waiting turned into worrying, when by the time he would usually be turning in for the night, Jean still hadn't messaged him. Marco checked to ensure the tablet was connected to the internet, turned it off and back on, scrolled through old messages a dozen times in hopes of somehow coming across a new one. But there was nothing. No missed video call, no instant message, nothing. Jean didn't have any sort of social media, and that had never been a problem, before that night. Uneasy but certain that he'd hear from him by morning, Marco fell into a fitful sleep, waking every few hours to check an inbox that remained empty.

The following day was much the same, and Marco kept to his room, waiting, hoping he would hear from his boyfriend. His parents wondered aloud why he didn't come to dinner that evening, but he was in no mood to dine with them. He barely ate at all, scarcely slept between the fall of evening on Sunday, and his arrival at school on Monday. At least there, he knew how to get ahold of Jean.

He waited by Jean’s locker, irritated by the time the final bell rang and he shuffled to class, late and alone. He returned again and again to that corner of the hallway, waiting to run into Jean, but never catching him there. By three o'clock he realized Jean must have skipped school, and Marco gritted his teeth as he popped Jean’s locker open to leave his notes inside for him to copy. But when the metal door swung open, the locker was empty. Not a trace of Jean’s mess lingered in it.

For the rest of the week, Marco returned to the locker between every class, obsessively opening it, as if the contents – and Jean – would reappear. But they didn't.

Days slid by, slipping through Marco’s fingers as he waited to understand, but Jean never called. He never sent him a text, a message, never dropped by his house, even after hours like he always had. Marco couldn't count the nights that he stayed up until sunrise, hoping to hear the dulling roar of Jean’s engine as he pulled up a block away, the way he had so many nights before. But it never came – Jean never came.

Living in a community so small and snugly knit, Marco was sure he'd run into him somewhere. Jean had dropped out of school, Marco learned, but they would cross paths elsewhere, surely. They would bump into each other, and Marco could demand an answer. In his head, he would ask firmly, _insist_ that Jean explain himself. But he knew that the reality of it was that if he and Jean did come face to face, he would likely melt down, lose his resolve. He just wanted to hear from Jean, regardless of what the story was. With a little elbow grease and one of Jean’s impish smiles, he figured they could work past whatever it was that had been keeping them apart. He just needed Jean to explain it all. He just needed Jean there.

That was the problem, though, and it worsened all the time. Despite driving or wandering past every one of their usual haunts, Marco never crossed paths with him. Jean was nowhere to be found.

A solid two weeks passed before Marco caved and went searching for him, really searching, and ended up knocking on the apartment door that Jean had once pointed out as his. The harried looking woman who answered was short with Marco, but definitive in her answer; no one lived there by the name of Jean. She told him that she’d only moved in the week prior, but that as far as she knew, no one on her floor had ‘such a fancy name’. Marco thanked her for her time at roughly the same moment she shut the door in his face, and he wandered down the hall, down the stairs and out the door, with no further ideas on where to look.

Jean was just _gone._

He had disappeared, seemingly only to exist any longer in Marco’s memory. His parents were quick to remind him – daily, at certain points – that it was for the best. Anyone that cared about him wouldn't have simply cut him off, after all. Jean wasn't worth a second thought. After a while, Marco began to believe them.

After all they'd shared, all they'd talked about and everything they'd given each other, there was no other explanation as to why Jean could just fade out of view the way he had. The reality hurt to embrace, but nothing else made sense. Love couldn't just disappear.

The night before his eighteenth birthday, Marco made his final phone call. It went unanswered, as it always had. As it always _would,_ he knew by then. He deleted Jean’s number, and let himself cry.

\--

That fall, Marco left for college.

Just two years earlier, he’d had plans that felt like they were written in stone, plans to go to the local community college so he could be near Jean while they got their lives figured out, together. He had even been the one to urge Jean to get his GED if he ever dropped out, so they could take classes together. But that probably hadn't happened, and the two of them going to school together again probably wasn't going to happen, either.

Even months after the last time they'd spoken to each other, Marco held out hope that his plans would come through. He still had every intention of enrolling in the local school that fall, but when summer came and a decision had to be made, so did a realization have to be had. Jean wasn't coming back. No amount of time waiting on him would bring him back.

Marco had to move on.

So he went to the furthest school from home that would accept him, two states away from where he graduated high school. His parents happily paid what scholarships and grants didn't cover, overjoyed to see him barreling full speed down the path they'd laid for him. It was everything they wanted, and they weren't even mad when he stopped calling home every week. The day to day grind of his life didn't matter much to them, he found; as long as he was succeeding, they were content.

He threw himself headlong into school. He did it to forget, to stop himself thinking of home and stop himself missing things that weren't there to be missed. His parents’ warmth, a place that made him feel like he belonged, a sense of self – he couldn't long for things that didn't exist, but that didn't stop him wishing. So he studied, for lack of anything better to do.

It paid off, at least in a practical sense. His college years went well, with Marco’s name stamped on every dean’s list his school published, for eight consecutive semesters. His parents couldn't stop bragging at every family event and holiday, and Marco became the cousin against whom all other children in the family would be compared. By his junior year’s end, he felt like the finish line of the race his parents had always pushed him to run was within sight, with him out in front of anyone else who might be gunning for it.

But it no longer felt like a victory.

Loneliness was so normal for him, it had begun to feel like his default setting, the only mode he functioned in. It wasn't that he couldn't make friends; he still had scads of old friends from high school, still clinging to the edges of his life via social media, and he met new people and made new connections with every passing term. But with the changing tides of college life, he couldn't seem to keep in touch with anyone for very long, and found himself drifting away from most of the people he might have looked for something deeper with. Relationships were a shallow pool, owing to the fact that he couldn't venture into deeper water. There were a handful of flings, passing interests that never lasted beyond a single rendezvous. Marco couldn't find anything in anyone that made him want something more. He didn't really date; there wasn't time.

Or maybe he just didn't want to _make_ time.

Once in a while, he would come across something that leveled him for a moment. He’d catch sight of something entirely mundane, or breathe a faint wisp of some scent that reminded him of Jean - leather or cigarette smoke or the sight of a beat up car, rumbling along - and he would be _forced_ to make time, to stop and sit and steady himself to keep from losing his mind. Even years later, he still cared, and he absolutely hated himself for it.

But it was alright, overall. Things were fine. _He_ was fine. Really.

By the time he was placing his order for his final cap and gown, the life he'd had when he was young felt like a different one, altogether. It was a world away from where he sat, a man sitting amongst the same memories he'd made when he was too young to know any better. Memories that were better left in the past, where they belonged.

Still, every time he thought he'd never have to entertain those memories again, something would pop up, click a little too hard for him, and he'd be left crying in the shower, missing a pair of lips that probably hadn't so much as said his name in years. Sometimes he wondered if Jean even remembered him. Sometimes he despised the fact that he still remembered Jean.

After four years of life essentially on his own, Marco graduated college with high honors. He moved home long enough to gather his things, and then moved out, not even sure if he would find steady work to keep himself out of his parents home. But he jumped at the chance to start fresh anyway, desperate to put distance between himself and the pinching, prickling memories of his old life, even if it was just a few miles.

Maybe - finally truly alone – he could move on.

Maybe. 

\--

His new apartment was spacious, at least in comparison to his needs. With a second bedroom and a small balcony, there was more room than he needed, but he tried to fill it with furnishings to keep the space from staling. It never felt quite right, though. As comfortable as his apartment was, it didn't feel like home.

A few months into his stay there, he began to wonder if just a few minutes down the road from where his a parents still lived was far enough for him to move. They didn't bother him there; he could count the number of times they checked in on him monthly on one hand, at most. It wasn't _people_ that made him feel uneasy there, it was his own mind. His _memories._

Driving his daily route, to and from work, to stores, to run errands – visions of the past were everywhere. Try as he might to avoid them, he still passed by his old high school, still drove by the places where he and Jean would hide out together, letting the real world pass them by. Memories of kisses, touches, whispers of forever made by mouths too young to know how foolish that was – it was all too much. Marco thought of himself as weathered and strong against things like that, but every time he battled those thoughts, he felt less and less in control of himself. There was just too much that he couldn't change.

In the parking lot of a drugstore one evening, Marco’s heart leapt into his throat at the sound of a roar of an engine that shouldn't have been so strikingly familiar. Still sitting in his own driver’s seat, he glanced out the window and caught sight of a weathered old black Corvette - _Jean’s car._ His heart thundered in his chest as he all but bolted himself in his car, sliding down as far as his legs would allow to keep from being seen.

Unable to keep his curiosity at bay, he watched the rear view mirror, waiting to see who got out of the vehicle. He turned the dial of his stereo nearly all the way to one side, cranking up music with meaningless lyrics to keep himself from crying. Finally, the driver climbed from the car, and Marco could breathe again; it wasn't Jean. Forgetting what he even came to buy, Marco started his engine and bolted from the parking lot, relieved. Even once he was back home, though, he couldn't shake the feeling of conflict. He hadn’t wanted to run into him – _had he?_

Marco hadn't actually seen Jean _himself_ in years, but regardless, Jean was _everywhere_ in that town. Five years later, he should have been over it. But the longer he stayed there in town, the more clear it became that he wasn't.

He made plans to move again.

He would move farther away this time, he decided, to a whole new town, a new state if he needed to. Whatever it took to wipe the slate clean. Poring over classified ads and online real estate sites, he realized how long a process he might be looking at, to relocate entirely. Progress was slow, and he spent weeks in a numb state of limbo, stuck waiting like he had been for far too long.

Maybe this was what life would be for him, he thought. Moving from one place to the next without ever putting roots down anywhere, running from something that wasn't even chasing him. In all his trying to forget about him, he'd become more like Jean than ever, a wanderer, afraid of being crushed by the weight of the staleness of any one place, afraid of home.

One night, while looking through listings, he indulged his wandering thoughts, and let himself wonder where Jean had relocated to. He _had_ to have moved; Marco hadn't seen a trace of him in years. Marco stared at the expanse of rental listings on his tablet and sighed as his vision began to blur, fuzzy from the beginning of sleep, and maybe something else.

Despite everything, he hoped that wherever Jean was then, he was happy.

\--

The process of moving was a tedious one, and Marco spent most of his time running menial errands and wading through his swampy thoughts as he wandered around store aisles, absent minded. It wasn't unusual for him to make an entire shopping trip on mental autopilot, barely cognizant of what he was buying. It was how he did most things.

So picking up boxes he'd ordered from a local hardware store one afternoon was just supposed to be another one of those outings, a mindless amble through empty aisles as he waited for the clerk upfront to get his order processed and ready to roll out. He was used to politely refusing help from the sales assistants at the sores he frequented. When a rough-voiced man in a red vest asked him if he needed any help finding something as he idly turned an interesting looking bolt over in his hand, he gave his usual absent chuckle and looked up to mutter his thanks, but no thanks. But when he did, words betrayed him, and they seemed to evade the other man as well, as he and Marco both went wide-eyed, caught in each other's startled stare.

Drawing a shallow breath, he blinked back at Marco, wordless.

He looked tired.

It was the first thought that registered with Marco, a little startling in that Marco hadn't even seen him in half a decade – how could he know if Jean was rested? But he could _feel_ it rolling off of him, a deep tiredness that probably added to the resting frown on his face. Jean still looked every bit as done with the world as he often did when they were younger, even if the edges of his sharp persona were softened by the age that was just beginning to show on his features. Then again, that might have just been the downturn of his collar, far too domestic a look for a person like Jean. He looked tamed.

And he looked shocked. Marco knew he probably looked quite the same.

“Jean?” He breathed, feeling himself pale. Jean nodded, just barely.

“Marco.” It was a statement; he knew exactly who Marco was, and it almost surprised Marco. He forced himself to breathe, and then to speak, heart nearly in his throat.

“H-how are you? How've you been?”

Jean shrugged, like there was nothing of importance for him to say in response. “Fine.”

Marco nodded. “Good. I, uh… I haven't seen you in a while.” The words bubbled out of him, unchecked by the common sense he simply didn't have, in that moment. It was an immense understatement, the tip of an iceberg too large to even fathom. Jean looked back at him, his expression slowly shifting from a blank look of shock to a hard glower, jaw firmly set as he replied through gritted teeth.

“Yeah. Likewise.”

A long stretch of silence passed between them, neither bothering to speak or to move from where they stood. When Marco finally attempted to break it, his voice cracked at the edges, betraying just how anxious he was. “Look, I'm not sure why you're glaring at me like that but I didn't come here looking for you. I had no idea you even--”

“So where you been?” Jean snapped, cutting Marco off. “Where you stayin’ now, some fancy-ass place uptown, or you just in for a visit?”

“I live at the Jinae Townhouses, now – the little duplexes on seventh street.” Marco made his best attempt at cordiality, trying to answer Jean’s question honestly. “What about you?”

Jean crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back on the heel of one foot as he shifted his weight from side to side. “Nobody’s business, really. Especially not yours.”  

“Why are you being like this? I’m just--”

“Because you're not fucking _better_ than me, just because I'm stuck working at a hardware store, alright? Come in here asking me what I'm doin’ like it's any of your damned business. You're not above me.”

“I never said that I was!” Marco shouted, only then remembering where they were. He lowered his voice and tried stepping forward into Jean’s space, unconsciously reaching for him. “I would never even pretend to be, I just asked you a few questions. It's been forever - I just wanted to know how you've been!”

“Yeah, well I don't feel like talkin’.”

With that, Jean pulled himself away, turning sharply with nothing more than a curt wave, leaving Marco standing in the aisle, alone.

After a long moment staring after him, forcing himself to breathe evenly again, Marco put the metal part in his hand back into its tray and left without looking back.

\--

A few days later, Marco found himself right back in the same hardware store, lingering in the same section, hoping to bump into a surly employee.

Marco turned a bolt over in his hand, again and again, as if the act itself would summon Jean, the way it seemed to that first afternoon. He frowned. He hated feeling beholden to Jean, especially after all the time and everything that had passed between them. He didn't owe it to him, that was for sure. But seeing Jean again – just knowing he still _existed,_ that he hadn't just been something Marco had dreamed up – had ignited a spark that had long since seemed doused.

Marco was still addicted.

He just needed to see Jean one more time, he told himself. Just once more, for another quick conversation, just to bury the hatchet as best he could, and then he'd never talk to him again. But pacing back and forth in the aisle of a store he had no business even being in, he was well aware of how grandly he was lying to himself. He stayed for nearly half an hour, wandering in circles, waiting.

But Jean wasn’t there.

When he finally accepted that fact, he traipsed over to a nearby help desk, where a woman sat surrounded by racks of paint samples, leafing through what looked like a textbook. She looked up at Marco with bright eyes and a big smile, and Marco swallowed his pride and asked about Jean before he could think better of it.

“Ooh, you the new guy, this week?” She teased in reply. Marco blinked back at her, confused.

“Am I, um – what?”

“Just kiddin’,” she said, waving a hand dismissively, but the look on her face was one of a person afraid they'd said too much. “You and Jeanny-boy know each other?”

“We're--” Marco struggled to come up with a label that described he and Jean. Nothing fit. “Old friends. I was just wondering how I could get ahold of him to catch up. But if--”

“Oh, okay, I see. I was just playing with you, a minute ago. We tease Jean a lot around here, cause he’s got a new girlfriend every week, or sometimes even a _guy.”_ She leaned forward and raised her eyebrows at the last word, as if it held some great weight of scandal, but Marco was too hung up on the whole of what she'd said for it to register.

“Oh, uh. Really?”

She nodded. “Yeah, mister popular. Always has a date to catch, after his shift. Big flirt when he's here, too. Even with the big, burly guys that come in. I think he's probably hooked a few of ‘em.” She leaned in, wiggling her fingers as she spoke behind them in a stage whisper. “You know, between you and me, I think he's a bisexual.”

“Ah. Okay. Well, I, uh…” Marco could feel his face heating up as he babbled through his response. He was embarrassing himself on multiple levels, and for what? Someone who obviously had better things to do than think about him, anyway. He dragged a hand down the side of his face and chuckled dryly, forcing a smile for the girl behind the counter. “I’ll just catch him somewhere else, I guess. Thank you.”

He left again, feeling worse than he had the first time he'd stalked out of the store empty-handed.

\--

After that, things were quiet for a while. At least in the air around Marco. He had no visitors, barely spoke to his parents, and besides a few outings for drinks with coworkers, all was peaceful silence. But maybe that was because inside of Marco’s head, it was almost too loud for coherent thought. He couldn't form a decent sentence of conversation with anyone else when his own voice was resounding in his mind, screaming at him.

Why was Jean acting that way, bitter and snappy when all Marco did was speak to him? Why was he still mad, still obviously keen to avoid Marco when the whole thing was his fault in the first place? And why the hell did Marco still _care?!_

None of the questions swirling in his head amounted to much when they were interrupted by the sound of a car, idling into the small parking lot of his apartment complex late one evening. His internal monologue was loud, but not so much that he couldn't hear the quiet closing of a car door. He glanced at his phone; it was a minute before midnight, far too late for the other, mostly elderly residents of his quiet residence to be expecting company. Worried that someone might be up to something, he peeked through his window, unable to see much, other than headlights dimming outside. He quietly slid his balcony door open and padded out into the evening air, one hand still on the door’s handle, just in case.

But the person outside was no stranger, casing the place for a crime or worse. The figure in the dim light of the complex’s single, flickering street lamp was standing beside their parked car, weight shifted so that their hip was against the smooth metal, hand propping them up lazily where it rested on the car’s hood. In jeans and a jacket that it was a little too warm for, they looked familiar. Stepping out fully onto his balcony, Marco could see their face.

He looked different than he had days earlier in the hardware store, different, and yet more like himself. It twisted something in Marco’s chest, seeing him there. Looking up at Marco like he'd just seen something incredible, he twisted his mouth to one side, a nervous habit that Marco remembered.

And then he smiled.

“Hey,” he said, just loud enough that Marco could hear him. Marco moved to stand at the railing around the balcony’s edge, leaning his weight down into it as he looked down at Jean.

“Hi.”

“Figured I'd let you know I felt a little bit more like talking, now.” Jean shrugged, like he was trying to shake off what had happened the last time they'd spoken. It was too much to simply forget, but standing just yards away from him again with the promise of getting closer, Marco found it hard to care. Still, he couldn't help his guarded tone.

“Is that so?”

“Mhm,” Jean nodded. “If you want to, I mean.” He thumped gently at the hood of his car, never breaking eye contact with Marco as he did. “You, uh – you still like goin’ for rides?”

Marco sighed. He was reluctant. Why the hell _should_ he go, after all he'd been through? Five years of no answers after Jean’s grand disappearing act, and then an impromptu shouting match in a hardware store – how did that warrant him giving Jean any more of his time? He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, rocking on his heels, thinking.

But then Jean nervously ran a hand through his hair, smiling up at Marco with that same James Dean smile he'd always had, and Marco was sighing, nodding before slipping back into his house to grab something to wear.

He was still so weak for Jean.

Knowing that it might be the last time he spoke to him made it a little harder to get ready, as he thought about just how many things he really did deserve to scream at Jean about. For all he knew, Jean would disappear again after that evening; time had proved there was just no way to be sure how long he'd have a chance to speak his peace. But the thoughts at the forefront of his mind as he padded quietly down the stairs were mostly about getting answers, and a distant curiosity about whether or not Jean was still as good a kisser as he had been back in high school.

\--

They drove for miles, not a word exchanged between them. A voice in Marco’s head shouted that he was making a mistake, that he should insist on being taken back home that same instant, but it wasn't loud enough to compete with the way his heart was hammering in his chest, rioting with anxious but thrilling screams of _‘finally’._

Jean didn't drive an old Corvette, anymore. The car they rode in that night was newer, cleaner than Marco remembered or even would have thought possible, out of Jean. But it still smelled like him, like sweet memories that had just begun to sour. Marco watched the world fly by outside the car, only chancing a glance over at Jean every now and then.

Jean’s eyes were forward; his face was blank. The windows were mostly rolled down, and Marco wondered if it was because this car had a busted air conditioner too, or if Jean just preferred it that way after years of necessity. The air smelled of rain, even though the skies were clear and dark. Marco breathed it in. All of it.

It took longer than he remembered – maybe because he’d moved, or maybe because the threads of those memories had begun to wear thin and come apart at the seams – but they eventually pulled up to the lake where they'd spent much of their time, when they were younger. It still looked much the same, was just like it had been, back when it was their spot.

Then, though - stepping out of the passenger’s seat of a different car, as a very different person - it all felt foreign.

Jean waited by his own door, closing it with a slam, a loud crack against the silence of their surroundings. He winced along with Marco. Maybe it was just instinct, but the fear of being caught out there, together – even as grown men – lingered somewhere in the backs of their minds. When Marco anxiously wandered over to hover next to him, Jean motioned out at the short pier that lead out into the middle of the lake and shrugged.

“Go for a walk?” He asked, barely even able lift in this eyes from his shoes. Marco nodded, and they headed that way together, slowly.

Meandering out to the place where the sandy dirt met the first planks of the pier, the two of them made small talk. It was hard, knowing what was undoubtedly screaming to get out of both of their heads, off of their chests as they walked an arm’s length from one another. _Where the hell have you been?_ But it wasn't the time, yet; they had ice to break, all over again. As awkward as that was for them both, they made short strides, both in conversation, and in walking out onto the creaky pier.

Jean talked about work. He'd been there for a little over a year, he said, though he'd never seen Marco there before the first time they'd exchanged words. Marco admitted that he'd never really looked for anyone the handful of times he'd been there before – certainly not Jean. When Jean tried to hide another wince behind a sharp nod, Marco changed the subject to what they'd been into in the last few years outside of work, a topic Jean quickly turned around on him.

“I, uh, I went to college at UNC,” Marco offered, cautiously testing the first few boards of the pier with his foot, just to be sure they would still hold his weight. Adulthood had put a few pounds on him, though it was nothing compared to the intangible weight he carried on his shoulders, in his chest. “Majored in business at first, like mom and dad wanted, and then realized I hated it, but by then I was too far in to quit. So I minored in art history. Made it a little more bearable.”

“That must've been nice.” Jean laughed, but there was no humor in his voice. “Getting’ the hell outta dodge for a few years, seein’ brighter lights and taller skies? Wouldn't know what that felt like, though.”

Marco shrugged, eyes on the water a few yards in front of them, rather than on Jean’s face. Still, he could feel the hard stare there. “Yeah, well. It wasn't what I wanted for myself. You know that. I wanted to stay here, with you.” As soon as he'd said it, he regretted his honesty, but it didn't matter. It wouldn't change anything. He slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and kicked one of the thick, wooden supports that held the pier aloft above the water.

“But kids want stupid things, I guess. And you obviously didn't want me, anymore, so I wasn't gonna wait around and hope that you'd decide that you did.” He might have kept walking, wandering out toward the pier’s edge, but Jean caught his arm and stopped him, and the force with which he turned Marco to face him nearly knocked him to his knees.

“Of course I still fucking wanted you!” Jean hissed, the heart he’d always worn on his sleeve still visible all those years later as it shook him with a sudden rage. “But your damned parents made it pretty clear that night that I wasn't fucking good enough for their son.”

Marco tore his arm away from where Jean’s fingers were digging into his skin. “It was just a few minutes of shouting! What teenagers don't get caught once or twice? It wasn't something that should've made you disappear from my life without a second word for five years, Jean.”

A beat of silence passed, and Jean’s mouth flew open to speak time after time, words seemingly stuck in his throat all the while. When he finally managed to say something, his tone was strange, a smashing together of anguish and something akin to amusement. Marco had never heard him sound that way, before.

“You have no idea, do you?” He asked, shaking his head, looking down at the pier as if to be sure the world hadn't moved beneath his feet. “I didn't think – but they made it seem like you _did,_ and I…” He trailed off, muttering, then settled in a heap, half lying on the wooden boards beneath him. Marco stared, confused, but unable to stop himself, he dropped to crouch beside him, hands out in case Jean needed them to find his footing again. But he didn't even try to get up. He just looked back at Marco, almost through him, eyes focused on some point so far in the distance that he might as well have been looking straight into the past. 

“Your parents. They came to my house. My fucking _dad’s_ house. They showed up there and made a whole stupid scene in the front yard. Told my dad what a piece of shit I was, like he didn't already know. They told me not to talk to you, again. Not to call you or text you or come anywhere near their property. They didn't even want me _looking_ at you. I felt like a fucking criminal.” Jean dragged a hand down his face, clawing, voice shaking. “They told me they would block my calls, have me arrested or slap me with a restraining order – anything to keep you _safe_ from me. My dad threw me out that night, right after he blacked my eye.” Shuddering, Jean pulled one of his knees in toward his chest. He wouldn't look up at Marco anymore; he sat, shaking his head without pause as he spoke. “I couldn't stay in school, not with nowhere to eat and sleep and shit. And the last thing I wanted was to have to keep away from you when all I wanted was… _Fuck.”_ He dug the heel of his hand into his eye, trying hard to keep his voice steady. Marco scooted closer, listening.

“So I dropped out. My dad signed for it, because he knew if I was out, he wouldn't have anything left to deal with from me. I skipped town for a bit and couch surfed. When I tried to come back, my dad was gone. Fuckin’ _gone,_ like he _moved,_ and didn't tell me where the hell he went. I was all by my damned self, and I… I _know_ I shoulda’ called. I should've told you where I was – I should've done a lotta things. But I was scared, and fucking _homeless,_ and I realized that your folks probably weren't the only ones who thought I wasn't worth your time.”

“I... I had no idea!” Marco shouted, scrambling across the weathered deck of the pier to close the space between them. Only when Jean winced at their sudden proximity did he think better of it. “Jean, I'm sorry. But… How could you think I knew about any of that and was okay with it? Jean, I – my parents aren't me – you should've _known_ I still wanted to hear from you. You should've done something to let me know you were okay, at least. You could've told me what was happening, somehow. You could've at least made sure I knew you were still _alive.”_

"It didn't matter!” Jean shouted, slamming a fist onto the boards beneath him. The entire pier quivered, or maybe it was just Marco, shaking at the sound of Jean’s raw, splintered voice. There was a sound like thunder, approaching from a distance, but it could have just been the anxious ringing in Marco’s ears at the way Jean’s voice topped out, cracked like lightning before rumbling away, quiet and rough.

“Nothing I would have said or done would've been enough to ever make your fucking parents okay with us – with _me._ And they made a point. You were better off without a lowlife loser like me.”

It was Marco’s turn to shout, reaching out to tear Jean’s hand away from where it was fisted around the collar of his jacket. It was like he was trying to hurt himself, throw himself into a noose he somehow thought he deserved. Marco couldn't take it any longer.

“Why are you still calling yourself that? Why do you insist on trying to convince everyone that you don't matter, that no one cares about you? You know for a fact I did. I _still_ do. But you never let me have a say in what you--”

“Your say was the way you never wanted me near you where anyone else could see.”

"No, it wasn't!” Marco shouted. “That's… It's not what I _meant_ for my say to be. I was young and stupid and scared. You know how my parents were! But that's not me, anymore. I grew up and grew a backbone and I'm not the same scared kid that I was back then. But you wouldn't _know_ that, because you haven't talked to me in half a damned decade.”

“What do you think I brought you out here for?!” Jean threw his arms out to either side, looking around at the water quietly lapping the edges of the pier, beginning to ripple as the wind kicked up with an approaching storm. When he looked back at Marco, the rage on his face was gone, replaced by the look of someone who'd been beaten, given up. “I know you're different. I am too. Maybe not different enough, but I'm a grown man. We were kids, then. We can't get back what we had, then, because we're not those people anymore.” He let his hands bump against Marco’s knees, not quite reaching out for him, but almost. Marco inhaled sharply, huffing. He pulled away from Jean, pushing himself up onto his feet to back away entirely.

“So that's it? All that arguing just to tell me what I already knew? You didn't need to bring me all the way out here in the middle of the might to break my heart again, Jean. I know it's over. I've known that for a long time. And just like last time, I don't get a say.”

At that, Jean moved to his feet too, nearly stumbling as he did. “It was _never_ over! Not for me. It wasn't over then, and it's not over now, unless _you_ want it to be.” He drew himself up as tall as he could manage, and Marco realized then that he'd outgrown Jean by an inch or two, but still somehow felt small beside him with his head held high. Lightning lit the horizon behind them, but at the sound of Jean’s assured voice, he felt too safe to seek shelter. “And it's _all_ your say, this time. Tell me what you want. Tell me if you could love me again, or if I'm wasting our time out here tonight.”

Slowly, carefully, Jean drew nearer to Marco. It wasn't him asking, so much as an offer. Closeness, if Marco wanted it. And try as he might, Marco couldn't deny that he did.

“I don't have to try to love you again. I never figured out how to _stop_ loving you. It's been five years and I still think about you all the damned time.” He bit down on his lip to stop himself talking, eyes shuttering closed as he tried to regain his composure. There were things he wanted so badly to scream at Jean for, things he still needed to understand. That need for answers was the only thread of his resolve that he still had, the only thing keeping him from diving forward and pulling Jean into his arms. “But I heard you've been staying pretty _busy_ with other people.”

He looked back at Jean, searching his face for a reaction. Waiting. With another rumble of thunder, rain began to fall, gentle as it struck his skin. Jean nodded, eyes still focused on Marco.

“I bet every bit of what you heard is true, but I... I can't stop thinkin' about you, since the last time I saw you. I never could.” He didn't even ask where Marco had heard about him, didn't deny it. He turned away for a moment, like he'd reconsidered talking, like he might just leave. But then he whipped back around and _charged_ toward Marco, stepping into his space until they were nearly pressed against each other, his hands hovering in front of him in the mere inches between them, shaking. “I'm sorry. I'm not gonna lie to you; I've been all over the place, with all kinds of people since things with us fell apart. I kept looking for something that would mean as much as you did to me, but I never found it. And how can you begrudge me a few distractions when all I _really_ wanted was always gonna be out of reach?”

His fingers trembled, just a breath away from touching Marco. But he kept them there, as if to make his point.

_Out of reach._

It was something Marco had long since written his own happiness off as being, and something he couldn't stand the thought of being to anyone else. To _Jean._

He raised his own hands – skin now throughly streaked with rivulets of rain water - threading his fingers with Jean’s and squeezing, scarcely able to believe that the moment was real, and that he was in it. He couldn't begrudge Jean anything; he knew the feeling of sharing his bed with a lover who didn't fill the void in his heart, and he knew he had no right to hold that much against Jean when he’d been there too, more than a few times.

Marco could scarcely hold _anything_ against him, with the way he looked standing there, staring back at Marco like the sun among the rain clouds. Pulling Jean’s hands down to hold them more loosely, he stepped forward, just enough to press his forehead to Jean’s and whisper.

“You still want me?”

Quietly, confidently, Jean replied. “Just like I always have.” He brought one hand up to trace knuckles along Marco’s jaw, eyelids heavy against the falling rain as he stared at his lips. Marco laughed, in spite of himself.

“You know how hard it's gonna be to fit us back together?”

Jean nodded, his touch more assured then as he thumbed at Marco’s cheek, cupping his face in his hands. “Do you know how hard I'm willing to try?”

Something in Marco shattered, at that remark. Even then, after everything he knew Jean had been through – suffering to match his own, or worse – he believed his words. Jean had always been willing to try, but the honesty in his voice was more apparent than ever. His intentions were laid bare in the wake of the rain falling around them, washing away pretense. Finally allowing himself to crack, Marco choked out a sob as he threw his arms around Jean’s neck and let himself be kissed.

Jean still had the same rough, needy kiss that Marco remembered, made all the more so by the years of longing that were finally being atoned for. He pulled Marco in close, wrapped an arm around his waist, and only pulled away for a moment to breathe, sighing Marco’s name like a whispered prayer. It was all the shelter either of them needed from the storm.

 

“I'm sorry,” Marco murmured, over and over as Jean dragged lips down the side of his neck and back up, kissing every inch of him that he could reach, making up for all the time that skin had gone unkissed. He shook his head fiercely, before returning his lips to Marco’s.

“We both are,” he breathed against Marco’s mouth, mindless of the rain that was matting their hair to their faces. “We both fucked this up and now we're both back at square one. No apologies, ok? Sorry is over. This is what matters now.” He squeezed Marco tighter, kissing him again. A flash of lightning lit the sky in the distance, a loud clap of thunder chasing it. Half frightened, half high on the moment, Marco looped his arms tighter around Jean’s neck and jumped into his arms.

Jean barely flinched, collecting Marco into his arms with hands gripping his thighs to hold him there. His arms were stronger than Marco remembered, another mark of just how much life had changed them both since those arms had last held him. He kissed Jean again, kissed him like he was _starving_ for him, like he would _die_ if he didn't get just one more. He wondered if he would ever feel satisfied, if he would ever get enough after being without Jean for so long.

But he had time to find out. Despite the storm hanging overhead, everything looked brighter. The future rolled out in Marco’s head, a path of endless possibilities. With Jean’s arms around him, he actually felt like exploring them.

Jean drew a ragged breath, his forehead pressed to Marco’s cheek for a long moment of silence before he finally spoke. “I'm still not good enough for you.”

Arms still looped tight around Jean’s neck, Marco shook his head fiercely, water flying from his hair. “You’ve _always_ been good enough. It's me that needs to be better. I'm gonna _be_ better.” He pressed another kiss to the top of Jean’s head, his face buried in soft, wet hair that still smelled just the way he remembered it. Jean shivered, and tightened his grip on Marco.

“Tell me you love me, and we’ll call it even.”

Marco hummed, rain still streaming down his face. “We could be here all night, and I still couldn't tell you as many times as I need to.”

Jean nosed along Marco’s jaw, until he came to his ear, nipping at the sensitive skin there for a second before laughing quietly, his voice a hoarse whisper to match the roll of thunder around them.

“Lets try, anyway.”

\--

That fall, Marco went through with his move.

Putting space between himself and the places that were still haunted with memories was important for him, if perhaps not for the same reasons as before. The last five years had been a learning experience, an adolescence in his life, and they were more awkward to look back on than his actual teenage years. So rather than look back, he looked forward, moving away from his parents, and from the uncomfortable air that hung heavy in what had been his hometown, after learning just how much they’d added to his anguish in that time.

He packed lightly, selling some things and giving others away. There were a lot of things he would rather not bring with him. Only a small truckload of furnishings and necessities made the cut, and trunk full of bags with linens and clothes – all things he could scarcely live without.

And Jean, beside him in the passenger’s seat.

The discussion hadn't been a long one. As soon as Marco had mentioned his intentions to move, Jean had gotten a faraway look that reminded Marco far too much of the one he'd seen in the mirror during the years they'd been apart. Until he brought up the idea of Jean coming with him. Jean didn't ask where they were going, or what kind of place Marco was looking for. All that mattered was the chance to fall asleep beside him, every night, maybe even for the rest of their lives.

“Just take me home,” he whispered, hiding a laugh in his breathy words as they looked through listings that would accommodate both of them.

It was too soon, his parents warned him. He and Jean had only just gotten together – were still making the rounds informing friends and family – when they made the choice to move into a single space in an entirely different city. They were jumping the gun, diving into the deep end before they'd remembered how to swim. But they did it anyway. Marco really had no reason to put stock in anything they had to say, anymore.

As much as he hated to admit it, though, they weren't entirely wrong.

Some things were a little odd at first, just shy of uncomfortable for both he and Jean as they figured out how to share space. It had always been blindingly obvious that they were two very different souls, and never was that more apparent than in the daily dance of chores and work schedules and meals and sleep. But they were two souls piloting bodies that couldn't keep away from each other, and even the little annoyances of figuring out compromise melted away when hands met skin.

They had to relearn each other. It was like meeting each other for the first time, in some ways. They had known each other as teenagers – children – and the people they'd become in the years they'd been apart were strikingly different than the person they'd each know in the other before. Despite the time they'd spent loving one another, even in absence, they couldn't ignore the fact that they'd endured years of forgetting details, dates and dreams that they had together. It took weeks for it all to come back to them, piece by piece, helped along by more than a few tears and tense voices.

But some things came back to them naturally. The lace of their fingers, the quickness to smile, the way arguments always gave way to apologetic laughter. They were the things Marco had pined for the most in the years they'd been apart, and they were the things that returned as soon as the two of them realized that they had a second chance.

Jean was still Jean. He was impatient and pushy and hard to handle, though his talent for trouble had lost its edge with age. More importantly though, his roguish smile still made Marco’s heart leap in his chest, and the way his hands fit Marco’s hips had only improved with time.

For his part, Marco still knew how to make Jean melt, how to bring out the softness that some people might've sworn wasn't there. Marco knew just how to get to it, how to linger in it, and how to have Jean hoping he would never leave. He wouldn't, of course; not if he had his way about it.

Something that the years and Marco’s parents and the world that seemed to be against them still hadn't managed to take was the pure joy they got from being in each other’s presence. Finally able to relax there, Marco wondered if that feeling would fade. But it lingered, and only deepened with the days that passed of finally planning that life they'd dreamed of together, with a few revisions made for the sake of reality. Jean made plans to go back to school, and Marco pulled up rental listings close to where he'd be attending classes, that fall. When Jean pointed out a rental home with a garage and a second floor – one with an extra room, where Marco could create a library, just like he'd always dreamed of doing – Marco couldn't stop himself smiling at the fact that Jean had _remembered._ They were still the perfect fit, beautifully mismatched and yet in perfect step, each other’s compliment. They were still everything good about life, to one another.

They moved in and moved on, together.

Snapping new photos to hang in frames on the wall of their new home, the two of them were all smiles. Marco was finally unafraid, only rolling his eyes a little bit when Jean pressed a sloppy kiss to the side of his face just before the shutter clicked on one of them. He turned to kiss him back properly, snapping picture after picture of their blissful faces. They shared them on Facebook, set them as phone backgrounds, put them _everywhere._

It was just what Jean had always wanted, and what Marco was happy to finally be able to give him.

Marco wallpapered his new life with the images, to remind himself that he was free. He was happy. He was content.

That didn't keep the pain of what had been from settling in to sting him, occasionally. Both of them blamed the other, at least a little bit, maybe out of fear of their own share of the fault. It wasn't easy, letting go of nearly half a decade of hurt, even with apologies made. There were still moments – things mentioned on accident or seen in passing - that triggered awful memories. The discomfort, even as it faded, was still very real.

But in Jean's arms, it was eased. Time would heal them fully, and until then, they were there for one another, with as much patience as they each could offer. They salved each other’s wounds and kissed away the aches until they were too dull to notice, too covered in the happiness of new memories made together to sting much, anymore.

It was a patch job, but the more Marco thought about it, the more okay with that he was. He didn't want a new start. He wanted what he'd loved and lost, and could finally say he loved again. Few people could say they had a second chance at their first love; he counted himself lucky in that respect, every day he woke up next to Jean.

They still argued, of course. Marco wondered how anyone living with Jean couldn't. They drove each other up the wall, sometimes; Marco was nearly as uptight as he'd always been, taking things more personally than he should have, while Jean was still a bit too loosely strung for his own good. But they were both determined to compromise, to be what the other never had in their families – to be what a partner should be.

Together, they relearned the steps of their dance, moving around each other in the glide of oil and water, bringing back together what had once been a perfect show.

It was as beautiful as it had ever been, the love they shared, that grew deeper every day. They were as imperfectly, wonderfully suited to each other as ever two people had been, as determined to make happiness work in a new decade as they had been five years earlier, as they had ever been, in all their lives. Despite what Marco’s family or Jean’s friends or _anyone_ they knew said about them, they knew that what they had was never meant to be a short story, a season of their life to be shelved later and forgotten.

It was flawed, but it was real. It was stronger than it had ever been, and it was uniquely theirs.

They let the pages fall on the chapters behind them, and moved on with writing the rest of their story, together.


End file.
